


Love The One You're With

by Safiyabat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sickfic, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:30:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby gets hit with a case of viral pneumonia.  Soulless!Sam plays nurse.  Set sometime post-"You Can't Handle The Truth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love The One You're With

**Author's Note:**

  * For [herbailiwick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/gifts).



> This was written in response to a request by herbailiwick for a sickfic involving Bobby and Soulless!Sam.
> 
> Supernatural and the characters from the show are not my property. I make no money from this or any other work of fan fiction.

Bobby groaned his way back to consciousness. “How you feeling, Singer?” Jody Mills’ face looked down at him from what seemed like an impossible height, beautiful even over her bland uniform. Maybe more beautiful for the blandness of her uniform. Maybe it was the medication. What was in that god-awful crap, anyway?

“Like my corsets are too tight,” he admitted with a wheeze. “This pneumonia is a bitch.”

“Yeah, well, it could be worse. You could still be in the hospital. They wanted to keep you until it cleared up.”

“Like hell I was staying in the damn hospital,” he muttered. “Who would have kept an eye on this place?”

“Look. I managed to talk them into letting you come home but only if you had someone staying with you full time. So I called in some family.” She gave a cheery smile, teeth reflecting the little light in the room.

“Dean?” “No, Dean had something – he couldn’t talk about it, but said it had something to do with someone named Balthazar? He left Sam behind, though.” Bobby shivered, and Jody’s eyebrows knit together. “Is that not okay? Is there a reason you don’t want Sam around?” 

“It’s been a little hard for people to get used to some of the changes after the Apocalypse.” Sam’s voice came from the doorway, or what passed for his voice these days anyway. When he’d had his soul his voice was soft, gentle, diffident. Now it was hard and confident and … menacing, even when he was just talking about the weather. 

“It’s fine, Sheriff,” Bobby grunted. “Sam’ll do just fine. Thanks.” It wasn’t true, not really, but he had to say it. He had to cover for his own rudeness, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t like the guy cared.

“All right. Well, I’d better get back to work. I’m pretty sure that the new deputy will find a way to burn down the whole office trying to make a pot of coffee.” She shook her head. “I’ll check in tomorrow, okay? You should be okay heating up soup, right, Sam?”

“We’ll be fine, Sheriff.” The boy smiled at her briefly. Dean had complained – at length – about Sam’s new ways with women but he didn’t seem to be trying anything right now. “Thanks for everything.”

Mills left and now it was just Sam and Bobby. They both listened for the sound of the squad car leaving. “So,” the senior hunter commented, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s just us.” Even the effort of speaking so much had exhausted him. If he needed to fight the Winchester he’d go down like a piñata at a party. The thought didn’t make him feel any better. He could almost feel the bruises forming on his body now and wow those pills the doctors had given him were effective.

“Yeah. Just us. You hungry?” Alien eyes, inhuman, searching. Assessing any weakness, and Bobby was full of them at the moment. A giant weakness really, a giant weakness in the company of a giant. He chuckled to himself.

“Not just now.” He paused for a moment. “So how’d you get stuck with this gig? I figured you’d rather be hunting something than babysitting an old wreck like me.”

“Had to be one of us.” He shrugged, moving those massive shoulders of his. “Dean’s doing a thing for Cas looking to track down something Balthazar apparently missed on his little crime spree through Heaven and he’d rather not have me near anything angelic anyway.”

“Oh.” He wouldn’t have been sure how to respond to that if his mind had been clear, never mind with all these opiates coursing through his system. “I’m sure it’s not like that, Sam.”

“Of course it is. I was an abomination before, I’m worse now.” He shrugged. “I’m not exactly heartbroken about it. Last people I want to help are angels, right?”

“You weren’t down there all that long.”

“Fifty years, Bobby. And that’s after everything they did before. Whatever. You’re looking a little glassy-eyed, there. I’m guessing you’d like to get some sleep, am I right? Go ahead and close your eyes. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Part of Bobby – and it was a large part, to be honest – didn’t want to fall asleep. The guy had no soul. He hadn’t really had a problem with him before – sure, he’d been kind of off but he’d died at least twice and that changed a person. Plus the guy had been a little off before that, demon blood and all. But now that he knew what the problem was he couldn’t help the way his skin crawled. He had no actual soul. How was he even walking around with no soul? Your soul left your body you were dead and that was it, that was how things worked, right? At the same time, the drugs had their effects and those effects would not be denied. Neither would the sickness coursing through his body, and the best way to fight it was to welcome slumber. Plus, that way he wouldn’t have to talk to the Soulless Wonder. What if Sam tried to steal his soul? That comforting thought followed him into the drug-and-fever-induced darkness.

He woke again a few hours later. Sam was in a different position on the chair, reading a book from the library. “You need fluids,” he determined with a glance. 

“I need to remove some fluids,” Bobby complained. “Not add to them.” 

Sam, or what was left of him, snorted. “Come on, then.” He helped the older man out of the bed and walked behind him as he made his way down the hall to the small bathroom. He needed the spotter, too. He was a strong guy, but between the drugs and the fever and the fatigue and the pain getting from point A to point B was a bit of a challenge. Fortunately he had his giant with him. The guy might not be good for much in terms of conversation or emotional support – but then again, when had Bobby needed much beyond a bottle of Hunter’s Helper for that? – but he was fantastic at picking things up and putting them down again. If Bobby needed to be one of those things, he had just the man for the job right here. 

Fortunately he didn’t need Sam to help with the most basic of his business. He let the mammoth man help him back to bed and prop him up and then let him disappear silently down the stairs. How was it even possible for the guy to move so quietly? Five minutes later he returned with water and broth on a TV tray. “Here you go,” he said, setting the tray down gently over Bobby’s legs. “Let’s get some of this into you, okay?” While Bobby started to eat Sam reached into a pocket and pulled out a device. He pushed a button and ran it over his mentor’s forehead.

“You just take that thing back to your damn beanstalk!” he hollered. “What in the hell is that thing anyway?” 

“It’s a thermometer. I found it in the baby section of the store when we were dealing with that shifter-baby mess. Figured it would be more comfortable for you than either of the other kinds.” He reset the thermometer and started again.

“I wouldn’t have figured you for thinking of something like that,” the local admitted, maybe a little sheepishly. Maybe he shouldn’t have swatted at the boy.

“Why?” He walked over to his laptop and made a note. 

“Well, that whole soulless thing.” He coughed miserably and Sam was there in a second, supporting him through the spasm. “I wouldn’t figure you’d think about which thermometers were more comfortable.” 

He grinned a little. “Okay, that whole ‘not feeling anything’ thing? That’s emotional, okay? I don’t get sad. I don’t get happy. I don’t get angry. I’m just kind of there. I remember what it was like to feel those things and I have to say, this is easier. Maybe better. I don’t know. But I’m alive, you know? I have a brain, and it’s connected to nerve endings. I still feel physical pain and everything. And I’m not a sadist. I don’t want to cause you pain, so it’s not like I’m just going to shove things in odd places for the fun of it. Eat up. You’ve got another dose of your meds when you’re done.”

Bobby considered the boy’s words as he slurped his soup. Well, first he tried not to consider them, because his brain was a little addled to filter for the way Sam casually involved sadism in a discussion about thermometers these days. Then he gave in, tried to block out the way his mind went to the worst possible case and actually considered. To hear Dean tell it – and he’d had to hear Dean tell it at length, for days and days – Sam really didn’t think about anyone but himself anymore. Apparently somewhere between wherever they’d been when Jody called and when they got here, he’d managed to badger Dean into stopping for a non-invasive thermometer. Something was missing somewhere. “Do you even get sick anymore?”

“Never did. It’s the demon blood. I could probably get infections if I didn’t treat a wound, but short of supernatural means I can’t actually catch an illness.” He shrugged. “It’s okay if you want to go to sleep, Bobby. It’s the best way for you to get better.” 

Bobby did go to sleep. In fact he slept for much of the next three or four days – he lost count. Bouts of dreamless sleep were punctured by occasional input and output of fluids, all carefully and precisely managed by Sam. He didn’t talk much and he supposed that if he did it wasn’t terribly coherent. That was okay. His companion didn’t seem to expect much in the way of entertainment, although even before his death and resurrection Sam Winchester hadn’t really expected much in that regard. Most of the time Sam was on the chair, reading a book. Sometimes he was doing sit-ups or pushups on the floor.

Once in a while he was on the phone. “I looked that up for you, Rufus, and I’m pretty sure what you’re looking at is a dokkaebi. Yeah, dokkaebi. I know, it looks like a scary sonofabitch but it’s mostly harmless. What’s it doing in Wichita? I don’t know, your guess is as good as mine. If you confront it it’s likely to challenge you to a kind of wrestling match. You can only push it from the right side, never the left, and you should be able to beat it by hooking its leg. I don’t know, I don’t make this stuff up.” 

“Garth, huh? Okay, Garth, what you want is a flare gun. Well, I suppose that’s one way of doing it but the flare gun lets you go at it from a distance and that’s what you want with a wendigo. Yes, I’m aware that a flaming arrow looks impressive but the wendigo doesn’t care and neither do I. Yes, you caught me. I’m a wendigo, cleverly disguised as Bobby’s personal secretary.”

“Walt, huh? Sure I’ve heard of you.” Bobby’s eyes flew right open on that one, clearing the chemical haze out of his brain like a year’s stint at Betty Ford. “No, we’ve never met. Name’s Dave Wilson. I’m helping Bobby out while he’s under the weather. Yeah, we’ve been seeing werewolves off-cycle for a little over a year now. That probably is what you’re seeing. Yeah, I guess the whole Apocalypse threw off their timing or something. Oh you did, did you? How about after you deal with that werewolf in Tacoma I buy the two of you a beer and you tell me all about it? I’d love to hear just how you tracked them down.”

“Are you sure you want to do that, Sam?” Bobby asked him when he hung up the phone. He couldn’t really see Sam with the way his head was throbbing, but at least his chest felt a little better. “I thought you didn’t feel anger or anything like that anymore.”

“I don’t,” he shrugged, turning down the lights. The invalid’s eyes felt marginally better. “But as long as they’re out there Dean isn’t safe. How are you feeling, by the way? Feeling up to maybe soup with actual food in it?” 

After another day or so Bobby was ready for a shower. He expected Sam to try to hover by the bathtub – it’s what Dean would have done, and Dean had told him that he was trying to get the guy to imprint on him like some kind of half-demonic baby duck or something. Sam, though, stripped the bed and re-made it with clean sheets in the short amount of time that the older man was washing himself and was still ready to help him back to bed if necessary. Dean called that same day. “How’s tricks?” Sam asked his brother. “Sure.” He held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.” 

“Hello?” “Bobby!” Dean’s relief oozed through the phone, practically tangible. “Oh thank God. I was afraid he might have eaten you or something.”

“He’s soulless, ya idjit. Not a cannibal.” 

Sam considered. “I suppose anything’s possible, given the right circumstances.” He went back to his book.

“Was he joking? I don’t think he was joking,” said Dean, who of course heard the comment. “Are you okay?”

“Well, I’ve got pneumonia.” He rolled his eyes and felt gratified to see a little chuckle on Sam. Apparently a sense of humor wasn’t entirely predicated on having a soul. I’m getting a little better though. Your brother’s a good nurse. Not too chatty.”

“That’s not my brother, Bobby. But… he’s treating you right and everything?” 

Bobby remembered Sam’s comment about Walt. “He’s fine, Dean. We’re getting along like a house on fire.” 

“Oh God, he didn’t set the house on fire, did he?” 

“Dean, we’re fine. When you’re done with your little errand for Feathers you can come home and you’ll see that everything is just fine and dandy.”

“I’m about two days out. The whole thing was a bust, a false lead. I’ll be there soon. Don’t let him get one over on you, okay?” 

“Okay. You want to talk to him again?”

“No.” Dean hung up.

“I’m sure he’s just tired,” Bobby lied. 

Sam grinned a little. “Tired of the soulless guy, you mean. It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.” 

“It’s got to bother you at least a little bit.” He hefted himself up a little more. “I mean, you’re fixing to go out and ice Roy and Walt as soon as he walks in the door, ain’t ya?”

“That’s different. That’s a matter of safety. I didn’t put myself through all that crap – not still putting part of myself through whatever – so Dean can get shot in the back by a couple of losers.” He shrugged. “Stop trying to find a way to prove that I’m him in here somewhere, Bobby. I get that you want him back or at least instead of me and that’s fine, it is what it is, but we’re not the same guy, okay?”

The elder hunter sighed. “Why do you resist it so much?” His fever must have been lower because he actually picked up on Sam’s phrasing. Like he didn’t think Bobby particularly wanted either version of the kid around without his brother there. 

“Because it sets up unrealistic expectations. When I go slit Roy and Walt’s throats Dean’s going to lose his mind. ‘Oh, my Sammy wouldn’t do that, he couldn’t kill humans in cold blood like that.’ Maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t. I’m pretty sure that the things The Other Guy was capable of where Dean was concerned are what got us all into this mess in the first place, you know? But me? No problem. They need to die so they’re going to die.” He took Bobby’s temperature again. “Looks like your fever is finally coming down.”

“I think I’m ready to try going downstairs and try working for a little while tomorrow,” he suggested. “We’re not going to stop The Apocalypse Part Two lying in bed and eating soup all day.” 

“Don’t overdo it, Bobby,” he warned. “If you relapse you’re going to be laid up for longer, maybe in the actual hospital. You want to work that’s fine, I totally get that.” He tossed a phone onto the TV tray. “I’ve got all your land lines forwarded to this phone so I could cover the phones while you were out of it. I can play fetch for you, get you whatever books you need. And when you nod off or the drugs make you out of it I can take some calls for you.” 

“Patience from you?”

“I know, funny, right? Just because I don’t get sick doesn’t mean Dean doesn’t. And Dad used to leave us alone an awful lot. Then there were the hangovers – Dean, Dad, college. And like I said, it’s not like I don’t get hurt. I learned pretty quick not to rush back from an injury even now.” He smirked. “Now it’s just impossible to guilt me into rushing myself back.”

“I guess we do that to you a lot,” Bobby sighed. 

“Did,” the remains of Sam clarified. “That’s the great thing about not having a soul anymore, Bobby. No guilt. I do things because they need to be done or because I want to. Not because I feel guilty.” He chuckled. “The Other Guy was all about guilt, you know? Guilt and sadness instead of muscle and bone.” 

“So why are you here then?” “Because I want to be. And because it needs to be done. In that order.” He didn’t pat Bobby’s shoulder or grab his hand affectionately or anything, not like the real Sam would have done. But he did give a gentle half-smile before he went back to his book. 

Bobby’s stamina and strength returned slowly over the next couple of days. Of course, because he was feeling marginally better he chafed at the confines of the bedroom, which made him grumpy. The fact that alcohol and his medication didn’t mix didn’t exactly sit well with him either. His nurse didn’t complain about the occasional tirade or thrown bowl, though. He didn’t even react when Bobby threw a book at him, other than to catch it to prevent the volume from being damaged. He was as ever perfectly calm, perfectly cool and eternally collected. Nothing got under his skin, ever. Of course, it wouldn’t. He wasn’t a threat in his current condition, not when he couldn’t get to his guns. It still kind of pissed the old man off. At least Sam would have the good grace to go be hurt in the library by himself or something, right?

Dean arrived after two days, as promised, and then he slept for two days more. Sam tended to them both with the same robotic patience. When Dean was recovered enough from his angel games to take over for Sam the automaton gave a thin smile, winked at Bobby and left. “Where are you going?” Dean demanded. The veteran could see his favorite’s blood pressure increasing by at least ten percent just by being in the same room with his brother. “Bobby, where is he going?” 

“He’s taking on a little job for me,” Bobby covered. “It came up while you were away, and he’s been cooped up with me for a while. Not like you’re keen to be around him more than you have to be anyway.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like he can be left alone, Bobby. Who knows what he’ll do?” 

“I’m pretty sure he’s got this one covered, Dean.” Bobby watched Sam go.

Dean was a clingy nurse. He shouted right back when Bobby got cranky and he never stopped talking. He’d always been Bobby’s favorite, even when the boys were small, but now the older man found himself sorely missing the mostly-silent brother.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my best work. After I started it I was hit by the Martian Death Cold of 2013 and had a hard time focusing on it, but I hated it marginally less once I came back to it a week later.


End file.
